Bin-Hezam showed no outward expression. But inwardly he was smiling at the news coverage. He could not understand the entire scenario, but he had intuited enough to know that, as of right now, everything was proceeding exactly as it should.
The tea was oversteeped, foul. He drank only as much as he could tolerate, then rose and disposed of the cup and his wax wrapper. He exited the shop, walking a wide loop of city blocks before cutting back across Eighth Avenue to Ninth, setting his mind to the familiar Street View from Google Maps. This part was like walking through the landscape of a first-person video game in which he was the player.
Bin-Hezam had been taught that each moment was the sum of one’s life. That was never more true than each step he took this day.
From viewing its website, Bin-Hezam knew that the photography and video equipment store was owned and staffed by Jews. Still, upon entering he was shocked by how many there were. Dozens of them, it seemed to him. Patrolling the aisles, backing the glass counters, sitting on high stools at the payment windows. A nest of Hebrews.
Bin-Hezam worked hard to contain his revulsion. A wave of deep tribal mistrust washed over him. These people were The Others. They were less than human. Only by believing that his own God could conquer theirs, and in doing so unite all under Islam, was he able to recover his bearings and continue forth into this foul gauntlet.
He walked carefully around the vast store, locating the photo bags and luggage over to his right. He found just what he wanted, two black messenger bags that were common enough in New York to be invisible.
The desk clerk accepted the bags without a word. The Jew typed the bar code into his register rather than scanning it. The price amount came up on the display and he pointed at it with his finger, too rude to speak.
Bin-Hezam wanted to believe that the slight was an ethnic one, but he was nearly certain that the clerk had not even raised his eyes. Bin-Hezam pushed the cash to him and the man made change and bagged the items. He slid the bag back across the counter and immediately rose from his stool to attend to some other matter.
Bin-Hezam was heartily disappointed. He wanted to see his own deep hatred reflected back at him. He wanted to find some fault with the man. He wanted to feel the Jew’s suspicion. He wanted satisfaction.
He wanted anything other than to be ignored. He wanted the man to look into the eyes of one who was blessed against him.
Back out on the sidewalk, he felt like a spider who had just emerged unrecognized from a nest of flies. He imparted their nonchalance to cultural cowardice and a smug self-satisfaction peculiar to their race. All of which would work to Bin-Hezam’s benefit this weekend.
His next stop was around the corner on Thirtieth Street. A hobby shop. No Jews here. A big man wearing a gray work shirt with a railroad engineer’s cap atop his unruly white hair sat behind a cash register. From a raised promontory behind a glass display counter, he presided alone over a roomful of model trains, remote-control airplanes and helicopters, and kits for building aircraft, boats, and cars. A small fan with rippling blue ribbons blew warm air on him from behind.
Suspended from the pipes and ducting under the high ceiling of the narrow store were completed scale models of jets, helicopters, war planes, and a new item, military drones. On the back wall, Bin-Hezam spotted a selection of kits and supplies for model rocketeering. The man at the counter saw Bin-Hezam’s eyes fix on this section.
“Rockets?” he said, raising his eyebrows as though he were about to admit Bin-Hezam into a secret club.
“Yes. I want to buy one for my son. He will be nine years old next week. His life revolves around dinosaurs and rocket ships.”
“How big?”
“My son?”
“The rocket.”
“How big do they make them?”
The man smiled. “They make them pretty big.”
Bin-Hezam hid his contempt for this unwashed man and his unclean odor. “How big would you consider a D engine?”
“Big enough. Have a look for yourself,” the man said, pleased by Bin-Hezam’s interest, yet still reluctant to move from his perch. “We got just about everything. Give me a shout if you need help.”
Bin-Hezam made his way past the glues and the rubber cement tubes to the back. The wall rack was immense, and yet he had little trouble finding what he wanted.
An Estes electron beam rocket engine igniter. A launch controller.
On a rack to one side, he found cartons of potassium nitrate fuel pellets. To stay within the legend, he selected an expensive, multipart $350 kit. It included both components, plus a launch stand and the rocket itself, a white cardboard tube a yard long with triangular tail fins and a red plastic nose cone.
The man on the stool brightened when Bin-Hezam returned. A quick sale with almost no effort. “That’ll be three hundred and fifty. Plus the government tax.”
Bin-Hezam counted out four one-hundred-dollar bills and laid them on the glass countertop. Wind from the fan behind the man on the stool rippled the bills.
“You a Saudi?” asked the proprietor, with an interested smile.
“You can tell this how?” asked Bin-Hezam, assuming that the man was going by his large-denomination bills.
“I worked for Chevron for more than twenty years. Spent a lot of time over there. Took me a while getting used to things, because, man, you all looked the same to me for years. That oil money, it can’t be beat. People say they were lucky to be born here in America! I usually just chuckle at that. Luck is one thing. Want to win the lottery? Be born in Saudi Arabia, am I right?”
The man’s observation pleased him very much, and he chortled heartily.
“Very nice,” Bin-Hezam said, awaiting his change.
The proprietor pulled out a tall bag. “You want to make sure you’re the one supervising this thing now. Nine is a little young to be playing with this. Main thing is, you want to come away with all ten fingers. You know how the safety works?”
Bin-Hezam allowed the man in the railroad cap to explain the use of the safety key, a small metal rod inserted into the controller to complete the circuit that provided the current that heated up the igniter and launched the engine. He also showed him the fail-safe, wherein the key had to be inserted and held down.
“Thank you,” said Bin-Hezam.
“Anytime, come again,” said the man. “And stay cool out there.”
He would remember Bin-Hezam, of that there was little doubt.
One final stop that morning. At a medical supply store on West Twenty-fifth Street—not a Duane Reade, but an actual supply store for nurses and home health care workers—he purchased white gauze impregnated with fast-drying calcined gypsum, also known as plaster of paris. He also picked up a box of rolled cotton batting and a sheet of light fiberglass roving rolled into a tube about a foot long. His total purchase came to thirty-eight dollars.
Bin-Hezam returned to his hotel room. It had already been cleaned by the maid; everything appeared to be in order.
He hung the do not disturb sign on the doorknob and quickly shed his light jacket and sneakers, sitting with the television tuned loudly to some nonsense hotel entertainment channel. His purchases were laid out atop the bed, the loaded pistol removed from the safe and set upon the pillow.
Holy articles. Sacred totems. He had plucked these commonly available items from obscurity, just as God had selected him. Soon he would make them sacred by association.
His greatest duty was yet to come.
He muted the television and performed Dhuhr right on time. Full of gratitude for the flow of this day, he beseeched God’s blessing for the rest of it. So far, everything had gone perfectly, as Bin-Hezam traveled in God’s own footsteps. With the gift of grace, it would continue, and soon their paths truly would be one.